


Scrubbed and Softened

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Denial of Feelings, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, No Ecto-Penis (Undertale), Pampering, Purring skeletons, Sacrum Lacing, Sans/Underfell Sans (Undertale), Sensitive bones, Sensuality, Touch-Starved, Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Sans convinces Red to agree to a bath. Red might have feelings about this.
Relationships: Kustard, Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 304





	Scrubbed and Softened

If there’s anything that Sans has learned by being around Red, it’s that his counterpart’s an abrasive fellow. Not in the traditional sense--well, yeah, ok, he was, but being with him certainly made all the differences pop up between them like a loaded spring. And not just the scars, where Sans runs his fingertips along them during quiet moments while Red sleeps. It spoke of strengths and trials he just couldn’t experience. Anything to cause such injuries meant the end for him.

Red’s strong, and with that quality comes a narcissistic smugness that he waves in Sans’ face any chance he gets. But the rest of him is prickly. Not in the sense that Red himself was a prick, because that’s very much the case, but his bones are rough and splintered in areas, equating to what Sans thinks in the privacy of his own head as _sandpaper._

Even now, he idly traces over Red’s radius as they lay tangled over each other on the couch, comparing his own body, the observance odd.

That’s when, finally, he speaks up, interrupting Red’s doze. “It’s like sandpaper.”

Red only turns his head a fraction to show he’s listening. “You’re sandpaper,” he retorts, unphased by the comment out of nowhere.

Sans doesn’t let his grin betray how the dumb repartee tickles him. Instead, he continues to glide his fingertips over Red’s wrist to where it joins with his hand. The metacarpals feel more burred than of smooth porcelain, catching against the smooth grain of Sans’ own phalanges.

Sans sighs against him, every breath he takes pushing against Red’s ribs. He notes the peculiar little jolt that passes through Red’s body when he tucks in. He’s adamant on touching in a way that’s not sexual at all, but it feels so highly intimate that it makes a traitorous blush crawl up his throat anyway.

“Touchy-feely today, aren’tcha,” Red murmurs, his voice a half-sleepy chuckle. His wits are about him though, and Sans breathes out a little chuckle despite himself.

“Nah. I’m done.”

“Think you won’t be satisfied `til we’re glued at the hip,” Red drawls sleepily, taking the opportunity to rub his face against Sans’ like a happy cat. “At least, with jizz.”

Sans snorts despite himself. “Yeah, I was tryin’ not to think of that.”

“Then what’re you thinkin’ of, sweetheart?”

Sans gives him a look, as though sizing up a challenge before calling it quits. The thing is with Red, he tends not to do that. He knows how to beguile him just as much as Red does him.

“Probably how gritty you are might be `cause of decades of jizz, but whatever.”

Red tries not to bark out loud, but it slips past his sharp teeth anyway. “And dirt. Don’t forget the dirt.”

“Like I said, sandpaper. It’s like trying to cuddle a pumice. All abrasion and not a smooth patch in sight.”

Red snickers, “You like it rough anyway.”

Sans’ brain betrays him by stalling like an old station wagon. “Wow.”

“I know, you spoil me,” Red gloats, folding one arm behind his head like a makeshift pillow. He’s in the best position to survey Sans’ every reaction, and he likes it.

Sans rewinds just a little. “It’s like you just spray off the goop and drip dry. That’s probably it.”

“God, you’re really fixated on this.” Red eyes the way Sans continues to rub at his wrist, testing the surface of his bones with something akin to curiosity. Sans can guard all he wants, but he’s just as good as - if not better than - Sans in the whole face-reading department. “Don’t got much time to lay back and soak where I’m from, Sansy. Best chance to get shanked. So yeah, shower’s’re a necessity to get off the worst of it and carry on with shit.”

Sans’ brow shoots up. “Bet Edge’d have something to say to that.”

Red rolls his eyes but doesn’t shift to show his discomfort. So far, Sans is just tolerable enough not to dump off his lap - plus, Red rather enjoys the curiosity, especially when it comes to his body. Gives him a good reason to send the soft bastard a lewd grin here and there, not like he needs one.

“Of course he does, an’ like fuck I’m gonna let him do something about it.”

Sans doesn’t say anything towards the prickly way Red sounds about that, like Edge has attempted (and failed) to scrub Red down or tried to turn the garden hose on him. He tries not to think about it too hard. Especially with the vivid mental image of Red snapping at a running hose like an angry dog.

To distract himself from that, Sans levels him with a flat look. “Dude, you’ve been here for eight months. You’ve had all the time in the world to scrub down at least once.”

Red makes a noise low in his throat like Sans is pushing his luck. He doesn’t like being called on the (many) bad habits he knows he should tend to. Being in soft spaces makes him twitchy, like everything’s a trick and not to be trusted. Hell, he’s not quite sure if he fully trusts Sans.

Sans with his butter-soft bones so sleek and dainty that all he does is breathe on him and he melts. What’s his deal, hm? To make him the same by lecturing him about his washing habits?

Sans aside, Red sure as fuck doesn’t trust _himself._

He squints at the suspicious fucker for all he’s worth. “Arright. What’s your angle?”

Sans drops a cool shrug. “No angle,” he says quietly, then manages to keep a straight face when he adds, “I’m just concerned for your well-being.”

Red throws his head back and laughs hard. It ripples through him so violently that Sans can feel it in his chest.

“Dude, you’re a pot,” Red says, mangling the human idiom to the point past recognition.

“Make me some tea `cause you’re a kettle, then,” Sans shoots right back, sporting a smirk of his own. “Ok, yeah, I guess that’s fair. I’m not, uh, great with the whole self care thing either. I think it’s the one thing Pap’s been able to push me for.”

“What, tubby time? Fuck that,” Red mutters, aghast at the suggestion. “Are you fuckin' serious?”

Sans lays his head on Red’s chest and peers at him, all seriousness. “This’s my no-bullshit expression. I make my face look like this and the honest words come out.”

Red can’t help but snort at that but slinks his free arm around Sans’ shoulders, lying the flat of his palm over Sans’ pretty spine. He thinks ‘pretty’ because it’s where the soft bastard starts to blush most often, and his vertebrae are so sculpted and smooth it’s like he’s fresh out of the box. Possessively, Red strokes the small dips and curves that arc at perfect angles down Sans’ back like calm oceanic waves rippling at his fingertips.

Damn, Sans gets him all poetic and shit.

Of course, Red has to slam hard on the warm little feelings rustling in his soul. “You gotta stop hangin’ around humans. They’re causin’ you to be full of shit.”

Sans makes a face at him, somewhere between an eyeroll and resignation.

Red decides for some reason to extend mercy. If only because Sans’ silence is counterproductive in this case. He does still want to lay together, and yeah maybe get sticky again, but he relishes the way Sans is warm against him, cuddly and soft. He’s still stroking at his wrist, and Red continues to trace the soft curve of Sans’ spine. He wants to be able to continue doing so.

He sighs, long and soft. “God, why do I put my dick in you,” he laments.

Red can feel Sans grin against his chest as the other skeleton gives a hum of consideration. “I was just thinking the same.”

Neither of them take the initiative to get off the couch. It’s comfortable, and with Sans’ idle touches, Red’s dozing on the spot again. There’s a gentle sway to the way he moves his arm while gliding down Sans’ vertebrae, and he can feel the tinny little purr start to kick up from Sans’ throat.

He doesn’t have emotions about that. Not one bit.

Apparently Sans has had enough, which Red silently objects to, but he blinks out of his doze quickly enough when Sans leans back from his chest, his shirt rumpled and half-wrenched around under his ribs. He wears a lot less clothes nowadays, like he’s stopped hiding or he doesn’t feel the need to layer up for warmth.

He likes the sight of Sans above him, straddling his hips and half-sleepy himself, sated and stronger than before. Red feels a combination of possession and protectiveness that blindsides him for a moment. Sans shoots him a grin, leaning down again to fold his arms over Red’s chest and look him square in the face.

Oh. So he’s got a plan, does he?

Red can amuse the notion. He’s got a feeling he knows where this is headed, if the heat at the base of his spine has anything to do with it. Sans gives a sidelong glance down and to the right like he noticed, the corner of his mouth quirking just a bit.

Red flexes his hands just beside Sans’ thighs, just itching to inch inward and touch him all over. God, he _lov-_

Abrupt end; restart. It’s like it doesn’t happen, but Red averts his eyes, a glaring tell that shows Sans too much. His counterpart pushes himself up again with an interested little noise, but Red refuses to give in.

“Actually, I lied,” Red derails somewhat, his fingertips gliding distractedly against the sides of Sans’ hips. “I took a soak maybe a coupla months ago.”

Sans grins suddenly. “Oh?”

Heat flares at Red’s temples like a beacon. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, a little grouse. He shakes his head as though to clear the memory. “Why’re y’asking such a thing anyway.”

“Kinda thinking on it. I got a caddy at my place we can use. Kinda curious if there’s a skeleton under all that ancient jizz and geode.”

Red laughs again, this time in delight. “Man, you’re so _caddy.”_

All business-like, Sans leans forward, holding Red’s gaze. “All you gotta do is tell me ‘no’.”

It’s a challenge. One, this could be the most benign thing Red has ever agreed to, or two, it might just lead to shower sex, which he is one-hundred percent on board with at any time. His sharp grin widens somewhat, flexing his grip to pull Sans more into his lap, coaxing him forward so Red can capture his mouth in a brief kiss.

“How can I when you look like this for me?” he mutters a little too fondly.

It’s just enough to catch Sans off guard. He doesn’t do much with the admission, at least not immediately. Red hears the dry click when he swallows though, the hesitation deafening.

Sans straightens, his grin a little crooked when he looks down to Red below him. He gives his cheekbone a firm pat before he rolls off the couch, much to Red’s dismay, or rather, his dick’s. He follows suit, rumpled himself even as Sans none-too-discreetly gives his sleeve a tug. Because he’s something of a dog himself, Red pulls into the threat of affection with more force than necessary, just to see the flash of uncertainty in Sans’ eyes. It’s over in a moment, but it was there and it makes his soul flutter like a trapped bird.

See? Stupid poetry.

A grin cracks wider upon Sans’ face and he’s given a playful shove, or at least as much as Red’ll allow him to go. He isn’t pushed back, but it’s funny to see Sans try. Whatever, he’ll just shove him against a wall later as sweet vengeance.

“Your place `r mine?”

Sans gives him a sly wink. “Not mine, but I gotta get my stuff. Back in a jiff.” Then he’s conveniently gone before Red can argue, which is just as well.

When Sans returns, sporting a bucket holding an assortment of brushes of questionable size and quantity, Red gives him the ol’ side-eye as best as he’s able. He’d relocated to the bathroom, which is outfitted with a beacon of Edge’s horrible taste; a free-standing white porcelain tub with curled feet and a detachable hose faucet.

Red tries to ignore the smirk Sans wears for the fraction of a second it’s there, but he’s too suspicious of this whole scenario, even though he agreed to it. Sans also makes a show of jangling the bucket as though it’ll urge Red to get undressed.

“Ok, drop trou.”

Red doesn’t give in to the lewd thoughts that go through his head, but it doesn’t stop the familiar grin from touching his teeth. Without much precedence, he says, “Yessir,” in a sing-songy way. The flush that touches Sans’ face makes the whole awkward thing worth it. If he can fit in two to eighteen more innuendos by the end of this, he’ll be sitting pretty.

Or just… nah.

Red doesn’t drop trou. He unshucks his shirt first, making a cheesy show of it while Sans laments every decision that led to him knowing Red on every intimate level. To escape, he about-faces and runs the faucet. He pauses just before, appraising Edge’s questionable taste in bathroom furnishings, or perhaps thinking of said monster lounging in the tub. Whatever it is, Red has ample opportunity to sneak up beside him and breathe on his neck.

Sans doesn’t jump, but a prickling shiver runs up his spine like an assassin. Red’s win, he can do this all day. Another grin touches his sharp teeth as he flings his tee across the bathroom, it landing near the door where someone can step on it. Excellent. High points for aggravation and a distraction if the boss waltzes in.

Sans can’t help another hapless laugh when Red shimmies out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor as requested before doing his signature jazz hands. Sans gives him a pointed look, then his eyes flick down to the collar at Red’s throat.

Yeah, that’s not happening. Red knows Sans knows. It’s all very proper.

Instead, Sans unearths a small bottle of conditioning soap and holds it up for Red to inspect. He suspects it has something to do with their level of familiarity, that he thinks Red doesn’t quite trust him - and he’d be right about that, old habits are hard to kick. Red shrugs and uncaps it to take a whiff, finding the scent pleasant but not flowery. That’s a saving grace. It’s cool and earthy with a hint of herbs. Not something he’d figure Sans chose himself.

“Paps makes the decisions about scents, not me. As long as I don’t come out of it smelling like a rose garden, I’m cool,” Sans says, more to diffuse the tension in his voice than anything.

For some reason, Red can’t help but notice how excited he is. And not in the “hee hee, I’m gonna get him good” kind of excitement, nor in the “surprise birthday party and I’m twelve” kind of way, but something Sans is actually kind of looking forward to? And it’s honestly kind of… Well, Red can’t examine that too much, otherwise he’d develop some opinions about that.

What Sans does instead of boss him around is upturns a bit of the soap into the bath, sudsing it up with his hand so the water’s cloudy. It doesn’t smell half-bad, and the soap is non-intrusive. Red decides to brace himself and crawl into the tub while it fills up.

It’s hot and not too much, maybe hotter than he’d like. Seems Sans runs his baths warmer than most, though Red isn’t one to judge on that detail. The heat seeps into his perpetually sore body, unearthing cold areas in his joints that flare up in protest. A month, two months, however long ago his last soak had been, those little injuries hadn’t really protested too much. What they do now is hum under the warmth of the bath water, and Red finds himself sinking against the conflicting chill of the bath’s wall.

“Ok, Rosario, what’s new with the posh chaps,” Red says, pulling some human pop culture bullshit out of his figurative ass.

Sans sends him a look before it clicks, and suddenly Sans has so many more regrets for this than he started with. “The posh chaps.”

Red gestures in a vague sort of way. “I figure if you’re bathin’ me we gotta play the part.”

“Or we can _not_ do that, and you leave your dirty Will and Grace fantasies out of this.”

Red scoffs but isn’t particularly offended. He sinks lower into the tub, but makes sure not to go as low as to compromise the leather of his collar. He squints at Sans through the steam. “Killjoy.”

“I hear a kettle going off,” Sans remarks dryly.

“All this steam’s enough to polish my knob for years to come,” Red says unapologetically. “By the way, while you’re at it-”

Sans can’t help the grin on his face but he doesn’t react to the suggestion further, which means Red wins. He goes about his business as the tub fills, though not as much as the boss does. It reaches up to the middle of Red’s ribs and he hisses out a soft breath when the hot water seeps between the cracks. Whatever’s in the conditioning soap stings like a bitch and Red shifts to ease his discomfort.

“Comfy?” Sans enquires, not particularly interested as he pulls out a couple of washcloths and a large brush. He wags the former just within Red’s peripheral vision, like he’s acquainting Red with these strange and foreign cleaning implements. “Soak a bit. The soap makes it so the brush doesn’t agitate anything.”

Red grows suspicious and tenses where he sits, every one of his many scars itching. He gives in to rubbing over his hands where it stings the most. Lots of cuts. “Think you put chili oil in that.” It’s the most he’ll give Sans: slight discomfort but he’s not necessarily going to bitch about it.

Sans levels him with a surveying eye, but doesn’t say anything more. He just unpacks more of the brushes, and Red distracts himself by looking at them. There are large ones the size of the length of his hand from tarsal to distal, a few smaller ones that kind of look like toothbrushes, an _actual_ toothbrush, one where the bristles look wiry, worn and long, and another that looks soft but it’s only the size of his palm.

Ok, this suspicious fucker’s got his attention now. Sans turns off the tap and tests the water, and Red watches his every fucking move. He knows that baths are supposed to be time to relax, but he was honestly more comfortable with Sans on his chest while he purred on the couch. It’s a nice distraction from whatever clusterfuck he’s agreed to.

He shouldn’t be, but he’s wary. He’s heard too many stories of people getting shanked for letting their guard down. Sans hasn’t, has never attempted anything beyond trying to scratch his skull as Red drifts off. Maybe he’s learned his fucking lesson for shortcutting too close to him in the dark and nearly getting stabbed for it. Eye for an eye, since Red started it first, but that’s not the point.

Whatever the reason why Sans is such a softie, he wouldn’t have thought it was because he literally _pampered_ himself. No wonder the guy’s got no energy; he wastes it on fuckin’ _bathtime._

Whatever it was, this kind of self-care wasn’t worth it. Did it actually matter how gritty he was? Red thought about it and probably came up with the excuse at one point or another that he’d always been this way, it’s just how his bones were. The boss’ are only marginally smoother, but it’s only because Red insists upon doing the brunt of the work.

That’s the excuse he had.

He was tough. Of course his scars would make him… textured. He doesn’t have any feelings over it one way or another.

He does, however, have feelings about this bath water. Red didn’t know if it was some kind of aromatherapy bullshit or the heat of it sinking into his weary bones, but he’s starting to relax. He growls a little in protest when Sans lays a hand on him, only marginally cooler than the bath water.

“Now cosy?” Sans asks, his voice low and gentle like startling Red is going to earn him a bite.

“Stopped itching,” Red begrudgingly answers, relaxing a fraction of an inch when Sans’ hand glides over his shoulder to rest upon his scapula. He bites back a reverberating noise in his throat when Sans starts to gently scratch at the plate, raising his hackles with a restrained grunt. “I get it, ya soft bastard. Just make with the brushies, then.”

Sans hums in consideration, but doesn’t proceed. “Nah, still sensitive.”

“Ok, listen. You not tellin’ me jack shit is really grindin’ on my last nerve and you hovering behind me isn’t making me feel relaxed,” Red spits out with a bit too much honesty. He swallows the amount of twitchiness that bubbles up when Sans moves to his right side.

“Better?”

Red objects in his mind but he doesn’t give Sans one iota. Instead, he glowers at him, which is undercut by the presence of all the suds. Sans gives him a grin with his blunt little teeth. His smile is warm though, like he enjoys the sight of Red sitting in a tub even though he’s kind of pitching a fit.

Red unfortunately feels a little more than exposed.

Sans sighs. “Relax,” he says again, “the soap’ll make you prickle, but it’ll go away. Lemme know if you still feel it and I can dilute it a bit. Might give your scars trouble. Can I test on your arm?”

As he asks, a smaller wide brush in hand, Sans points to Red’s right with a bit of innocence Red isn’t prepared for. It takes him a little off-guard, though Red stares at him, eyes narrowed, for a full span of thirty seconds. Then, begrudgingly, he raises his forearm out of the bath water so Sans can reach him without leaning too far over the ledge of the tub, which is a shame because Sans looks really good when he’s wet.

That gives Red a bit of an impish idea, but he manages to push it aside when he feels the first soft strokes of the bristles on bone. Instinctively, he jerks his arm as though to pull it away, as it’s sensitive and feels like a porcupine is trying to have its way with him, but the feeling subsides as Sans strokes over his arm in small soothing motions.

It’s not bad. Prickly, but manageable. Red decides to let him live after all. The sound is at least a little satisfying, but it doesn’t distract him from what’s happening. The light scrubbing doesn’t scratch as much as he thought it would. It’s downright pleasant, to be honest.

Red sighs, but in a way that tells Sans he’s not as relaxed as he could be. He does spread out his phalanges so Sans can move down, watching as the tiny bubbles lift up years of stains from cigarette smoke and dust rubbed into the pores of his bones.

Sans sends him a grin and pauses, as though he wants a commendation for his good deed. Red doesn’t give him any, but his soul does that stupid flutter anyway like Red’s in jeopardy of catching feelings. That’s his problem. His expression is too fond in that split-second, and Red averts his eyes to his arm, sudsy and lush with the heat of the bath.

It’s not uncomfortable. It’s just a little freaky.

“This’s your kink, ain’t it, sweetheart?” he finally rumbles, amused. Sans’ expression drops, and though no, probably not, his magic scalds up his throat anyway. Red gives him a lecherous grin, more at ease now that he’s made Sans uncomfortable. Red always feels better for a little dirty talk. Not unfondly, Red reaches up with his right hand and gently slaps his sudsy hand against Sans’ cheek. “There, there, kitten. I won’t scare ya away.”

“Your taste in words is unfortunate today,” Sans sighs with a world-weary tone, but the quirk at the corner of his teeth betrays him.

“Only today? Damn, I gotta up my game, then,” Red retorts without a beat of hesitation. He likes the simple way Sans indulges him, as though his clapbacks have any heat at all. “Wanna scrub this dirty fucker clean? Get me to bow under your expert hand, hm?” The blush creeps up Sans’ face and Red grins a little more. “Bingo.”

“Shut up.” Sans isn’t looking at him now. Another win for Red, and he all but preens at him, even as Sans moves out of view to reach his shoulder.

The brush prickles, the bristles tickling at his old scars. They trace them as Sans moves the brush, careful to be gentle like he’s afraid he’ll hurt him. Red growls again, it settling into a hot wash of shame when the end trills a bit. It melts against his body and he tilts his head away so Sans’ brush can reach his neck.

“Not a goddamn word,” he mutters, his left hand clasping over his knee under the water. He can detect the herbal scent as Sans uses more on the brush, bringing up more water to lather. The movements are slow and tantalising, coaxing Red to lean against the brush as Sans works.

It’s soft, but the bristles create a slight sting to focus on. As Sans continues, Red leans his head forward so his counterpart has easier access to his cervical vertebrae. Red knows he’s made a fatal error of sorts.

It’s sensitive, but just enough to make him melt. He doesn’t gasp, but his breath silently hisses out of him in a long breath, his body slowly lurching forward as Sans pushes the brush back and forth. It kinda makes a funny sound, like he’s sweeping the floor instead of his bones. Like brushing teeth.

_Shukka, shukka._

Red can’t help but smirk to himself, letting Sans guide him to turn a little bit so his left side is more within reach. He doesn’t purr. He absolutely refuses to give in to that, but Red’s throat feels catchy like it’s beyond his control, just trying to rev up. On his next exhale, it creaks out like an old barn door and he swallows the sound down.

“Not a word.”

Sans doesn’t say a thing, but he can feel Sans’ grin at the back of his head. Red closes his eyes, finally tired of watching the bubbles pop and fizz in front of him. He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, but the brush is familiar now and scratching an itch he didn’t know he had.

Then there’s the vague calming scent of whatever herbs are infused in the soap, which are relaxing and calming as all fuck. Red can still think, so he doesn’t think it’s got any intent-driven magic in it, but it packs a certain punch. Like chamomile, but on hard drugs. He inhales deeply when Sans carefully moves his collar up and tilts his head back, and Red hooks his arms over the sides to keep himself from slipping down his brother’s stupid tub like an idiot.

It’s a mistake to open his eyes and look at Sans, upside-down and hanging over him like he’s treasured. There’s a look in Sans’ eyes that tells him how fond he is, like he’s a treat worth savouring. Red closes his eyes again before he can get one too many feelings over that, a small brassy purr slipping into his sigh.

Sans’ fingers and the brush tickle up his throat, catching on a deep scar there. Red makes a throaty noise and Sans clearly hesitates, but Red doesn’t tell him to stop. It feels good in a way that’s not sexual, like the first night he felt a dryer-fresh comforter on his bed, or a sixteen ounce steak cooked to perfection hitting his tongue. Or a crisp cigar, dry and rich, to be savoured as much as he wanted, his first one from a fresh box.

As with the good things in life, Red sinks down and enjoys it, Sans’ fingers hooked into his collar just enough to keep it up while the brush’s bristles work magic into his joints. His bones feel less clogged up, porous and open, drinking in the water like he thirsts for it. Red relaxes to the point where if he were anywhere else, his life would surely be in jeopardy.

Ok, maybe he trusts Sans a hell of a lot more than he says he does. It doesn’t help that Sans strokes the collar as it hums under his fingertips like a live wire. It resonates against his neck, a comforting hold.

Red realises that his purr has amped up again and he makes a conscious effort to restrain himself. Sans hums in amusement but he doesn’t breathe a word; he only continues his ministrations as Red melts into his touch.

The bristles work against him and down to his clavicles, where scars and abrasions scatter from a concentrated point, as though at some time in the past he’d fallen onto a grenade. Red hisses a breath and tension slides into his back like an old knife, and Sans lets go of the collar to bring his hand up and away, trading it for something else with a murmured, “Sorry.”

It’s a slightly smaller brush, one with white bristles, a lot denser but with more give as Sans pours more soap onto its surface. Red catches the end of the act as Sans works his fingers into its head so it lathers. The sight is damn near pornographic.

It’s also a relief when Sans approaches with it. There’s a thin strap on the back of the new brush so Sans’ dainty little hands can keep it from sliding as he moves, the gentle strokes baby-soft against his ribs where it’s most sensitive, even with the soap’s numbing qualities.

The low sound Red makes is almost like a purr, like a giant cat that needs grooming. He tilts his head back again and finds that Sans is closer than he expected, curled around his shoulders like a purring pillow.

Red sneaks a grin despite himself, half groaning as Sans sweeps down to scrub over his ribs. A shaky breath leaves him, sudden and harsh like he’s being scratched. It’s more than he can handle and Sans makes a noise of enquiry just as Red grabs onto his arm, startled.

That’s when the devil in him decides he needs to see Sans wet, after all.

In one fell swoop (heh), Red tangles his fingers into Sans’ shirt and pulls him close to steal a kiss. It isn’t something Sans is prepared for, if the shaky way he inhales his scent is anything to go by. His mouth is surprisingly pliant, and he leans forward to deepen the kiss, urged by Red’s tug.

If a kiss was all he wanted, Red would’ve let it end with that. But he delights in the way Sans tries to stammer something out the more he pulls on his shirt, urging him forward. There’s a feral need in Red’s brain that needs to be satisfied and it’s only going to be sated with more.

Impishly cruel and not unlike his usual self, Red nips at Sans’ blunt little teeth and gives Sans a deft strong-arm over his shoulder, pulling the lighter skeleton into the tub with him. It creates a mess, water sloshing over the side as Sans sputters and swears at him with all his might. Red grins at him, half-scrubbed and still trying to control the urge to give in to the purr locked in his throat.

“Cool your tits, it’s just easier to get to the ribs this way,” Red excuses lightly, as though this was a perfectly reasonable excuse. Sans continues to curse him out, grumbling if it was actually necessary while his voice warbles from the water in his skull.

Shamelessly, Red sends him a wink and stretches out his arms so his ribs are on full display. His scars seem redder, either agitated by the soap or from the exfoliation.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t you wanna scrub me nice an’ clean?”

Sans pauses in the middle of slapping the water from his head, his eyes falling to Red’s ribs like he hadn’t been the one caressing them with soft fingers. Red swears he can hear the way Sans swallows, as though he’s considering polishing something else. From the way his eyes drop down, Sans is considering it at great length.

Hah, length.

Red’s grin widens. “Pelvis too, buddy.” He makes a V gesture with his hands invitingly to said area with an interested brow waggle.

Sans seems to find his voice, though his tone is as dry as dust. “Yeah, decades’ worth of jizz still needs to be soaked off, so that’s coming last,” he grouses, then eyerolls with a none-too-irritated look when Red’s brow shoots up at the double-entendre. “Yeah, shut up.”

“I’m just takin’ full stock of every bone that needs your tender love and care,” Red digs in just as bad, grinning like a shark. Sans is in his waters now, literally and figuratively.

Sans swallows again, probably because he’s just as much a perv as Red is, and that’s not surprising at all. What’s surprising is that he stays in the tub with Red and searches around blindly for the brush he dropped, locating it near Red’s hip. It positions him very close to Red’s sharp grin, and Sans gives him a gentle smack with a handful of suds.

“You’re a dick,” he says without venom.

Red can’t help but smirk in victory. “Never heard one complaint before, babe.”

The pride in his grin melts away to hidden astonishment when Sans resumes the attention to his chest, carefully gliding his fingertips over the many scars Red has. Sans has always been the first to drop an argument, though it’s not for lack of trying. He just probably wants to get this over with, now that they’ve soaked the floor. Red’ll have to keep it in mind to make sure Sans doesn’t slip and fall on the way out.

Of course, he didn’t think this through. Sans’s in the perfect position to see every blissful expression Red tries to extinguish before it pops up. He flexes his hands against the porcelain white of the tub, his phalanges making soft tinking noises as Sans works wonders on his body.

As the water stops sloshing, Sans is more easily able to sneak closer and also crawl over Red’s body to reach his caddy. Red finds it amusing that Sans is so dedicated to the task of cleaning him up that he doesn’t even make fun of it beyond his prior comment. He just watches as Sans brings the bucket in with them, searches for another size brush and sends him a toothy grin.

Yeah, he definitely doesn’t have feelings about this asshole.

Red ends up relaxing a bit more than he anticipates, relishing in the warm, fuzzy massage that the brush working against him feels like. He knows that Sans is (mostly) joking about the decades’ worth of jizz, but Red actually feels better. Only slightly. Like he probably should’ve done this ages ago.

Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t be thinking these kinds of things with Sans so close. At least behind him, Red could hide his expressions and he’d be none the wiser. His tapping eases up, distracted by the way his ribs feel, warm and lush with the heat of the water, the soft tickle of tiny bubbles popping against his body.

He melts down a little more, letting his eyes drift closed. Red keeps his arms up to hook over the bathtub so he doesn’t drown like an idiot, lack of lungs be damned. He can feel Sans grinning at him, but the soft bastard doesn’t say a word.

Sans just continues, probably merrily smirking to himself with how he got this big strong monster to lower his defenses long enough to have a scrub.

Red ignores the feeling and instead focuses on the sounds of water dripping from Sans’ hand every time he brings his brush down to wet, then curling against his ribs in counter-clockwise motions as years of dirt and grit are scrubbed away. Red releases the breath he’s been holding, the annoying brassy purr creeping back into his sigh. And Sans doesn’t say a word. He just continues like this’s his goddamn vocation.

At some point, Sans switches out his other hand for a sponge, which Red really wasn’t paying attention if he had in the first place or not. It doesn’t necessarily catch him off guard, but it smoothes over his tired bones not unlike Sans’ tongue in their earlier days, but it’s relaxing and lush at the same time. He hums a little to himself, content as Sans shifts his hand lower with the sponge to go under his ribs.

“Careful in there, sweetheart,” he mumbles, sleep thick in his tone like Red’s about to drift off. He pointedly ignores the way his purr has definitely slipped in, making him sound soft and silly despite how ludicrously relaxed he is. His voice catches when he gasps as Sans’ sponge carefully makes its way up, dragging around the space to hone down things better off not said.

It feels like he’ll slip down if Sans lets him, so Red wraps an arm around Sans’ shoulder to anchor himself to him. He’s in that half-floaty state accentuated by the flow of the water as Sans moves. His mind’s still aware and awake even though his body is so much at rest it feels damn close to subspace. He doesn’t snap or comment when Sans pulls his hand from under his ribs to grab more soap, but he’s aware that Sans is being gentle, is being _careful_ with him.

And he doesn’t mind. Not when it’s Sans. Not when he insists upon treating him like this is the only time he’ll do it, to pamper him like a goddamn prince. He can’t bring himself to care. Red will probably assess that train of thinking later when he’s not in fucking heaven over this. He keeps one hand tethered to Sans’ soaked shirt, like he’ll float away if Sans lets him go. His purr feels like it’s vibrating through the water, echoing up into his head like a joke.

He doesn’t care. It’s just them. He’s purred before. Whatever. The only reason is that they’re not stoned out of their minds.

“You with me?” Sans asks after a moment of silence, however long it was, Red isn’t quite sure. It’s just so damn peaceful. “You’re not dying, are you?”

Red cracks a grin despite himself. “You wish.”

Sans wets a washcloth and slaps it over Red’s skull with a bit more care than he would have starting out. He sets aside the brush and sponge into the waterlogged caddy and runs a bit more hot water from the faucet now that it’s cooled down a bit. Then he brings the freshly warmed washcloth back to Red’s head.

The warmth of the cloth on Red’s skull feels wonderful, damn right angelic. He sighs out long as Sans almost teases him, just dragging the hot cloth over his eyes. It seeps into his head, steaming out any thoughts. It’s _nice,_ and Red can’t help but feel grateful. He didn’t know what he did to deserve it all.

God, what’s happening to him?

The steam and the heat _are_ nice though, and it mingles with the slightly cooler water surrounding his legs. Under the water, he can feel the soft flutter of Sans’ shorts against his legs as Sans moves to turn the faucet off again, and Red doesn’t mind at all when the brush is taken back up. He doesn’t mind more of the herbal, chilly scent of the soap, too wrapped up in comfort and bliss.

Sans repositions him so Red’s using more of the landscape of the tub, so his head is closer to the end of it so Sans can park himself at Red’s pelvis and pull one of his legs up. Red doesn’t mind being moved, but the chill of the outside world is a cold and cruel mistress that nearly jolts him from the enjoyment of this all. He hisses out a breath, interrupting how full and carnal his purr’s become.

Sans levels him with a look. Red feels colour flush up his bones in response, like he’d just woke up from a stupor and now Sans is ready to read the riot act to him. He waits for a moment, but Sans doesn’t tease him like Red would tease him, he only drapes another washcloth or small towel, wet and hot, over Red’s exposed leg.

It’s all about comfort for Sans. God, now he was seeing it, or at least given a chance, Sans is exploring this just as much as Red is. Red melts back into the bath, not worried any longer for his collar - he’ll just oil it later, whatever. He feels genuinely boneless as Sans works him down with his little brush, exfoliating and making Red feel raw and right.

He doesn’t whimper. The unique soap doesn’t make him feel sensitive and prickly anymore. He only feels the way his bones are lifted of their grime, how Sans’ careful attention to detail makes Red’s body bliss out and surrender.

His breath does catch though. He sighs a lot, savouring the massage, the treat of being handled. Self care. This is rich. This isn’t self care, this is straight up _indulgence._

Does it still count as self care if it’s your body double from another universe? Probably not.

That awakens something within Red. He doesn’t crack an eye open, but his body decides to tense with the thought. Roughly, his words half-slurred together, he rumbles, “It’s a lotta effort.”

Sans hums in agreement but doesn’t answer. Red decides to try again.

“Seems kinda a waste.”

Sans’ hand pauses for bare seconds, where Red actually thinks that he’s doomed himself and convinced him to stop. Then Sans just continues. “Not to me.”

The temperature of the water has nothing to do with the flush of heat that crawls up Red’s throat. He doesn’t reply to that, not directly, but minutes pass before he tries again. He’s not willing to go down without a fight, as much as he’s already folded to Sans’ whims.

“Your hands’ll get stiff.” It’s all Red can think of.

“Nah,” is the soft reply. Then, after a moment of consideration, Sans adds, his voice quiet and echoing like water’s still trapped somewhere in his skull. “It’s worth it.”

Red doesn’t acknowledge the raw thump that quakes through his soul. He doesn’t have feelings about that one way or another, but his jaw goes tight and something inside of his body clenches. Sans can probably feel it. He knows how Red ticks, though too much already. Red laughs a little quietly despite himself.

“I dunno,” he half-heartedly objects.

He can practically feel the grin in Sans’ words when the other skeleton replies, a slick eagerness in his voice like he’s trying to seduce him. “Then let me treat you.”

A treat, like Red’s earned something good. Like he’ll allow himself this soft moment and not immediately have to hand in his credentials as a badass. It’s straight up _pampering,_ and so what if it is. It’s a one time thing. Red can deal with that. He spreads his toes as Sans works his way down the twin bones of his leg and to his foot, working around his sore ankles and his metatarsals.

Red sighs like a man just come home from a long day at work, only the day has spanned over the past thirty or so years. The tension eases from his body, allowing Sans to glide the brush over him. It’s soothing, relaxing. He swears he can fall the hell to sleep like this.

Let Sans do what he wants. This’s entirely too relaxing to be legal, to be _right._ He tenses just a bit when Sans reaches his toes, paying special attention to the small bones to ensure every last one of them gets a good scrub.

Then it’s the other leg’s turn. Sans guides down his raised leg, patting his thigh like Red’s a wild horse that needs to be tamed, or at least won’t kick his teeth in. That earns Red a slight smirk for his troubles, and Sans deposits a kiss to his knee.

“You softie,” Red murmurs, sleepy-sweet. He’s inched down the wall of the tub, the water’s reach covering his aural canals and muting the world in its warm watery embrace. “Spoilin’ me…”

Sans hums indulgently and slowly sinks Red’s leg into the water and moves the washcloths over to the other one. Then he resumes, as though he has all the time in the world and Red should be treated well. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Red, to say the least, isn’t going to allow himself to get used to it. It’s a one time thing only, and he keeps repeating it in his head like a mantra. He doesn’t forget how he felt before all this started, suspicious and, ok, yes, nervous, but he’s comfortable. He doesn’t want to move unless he’s _moved._ It’s been long enough that he doesn’t want to get out of the tub.

His breathing comes in soft and deep, gently lulled into a doze while Sans works him over. Red’s other leg is eventually set back into the water, fresh and newer than Red’s felt in years. Sans is sure careful to move around him, bringing Red’s left arm up to scrub at his humerus and phalanges.

He’s more or less clean. He doesn’t even chuckle when he slurs, blissed out of his goddamn mind, “Y’missed a bone.”

Sans leans forward and kisses his brow, then removes the damp washcloth from over Red’s eyes. Red blearily blinks at him, like he’s just been awakened from a desperately needed sleep of forty years.

Red studies him. Sans looks worn out, but in the self-gratifying way he does when he’s given head for a good hour or so. His face is a little flushed with exertion and he’s breathing deeply, as though he’s trying to keep down the fact that he’s been repressing his purrs. Meanwhile, Red’s been going, full-throated and unashamed for the last forty or so minutes. His chest pumps out with the force of the rumbles, so loud and strong it reverberates throughout the water. He feels sated like he’s never been before.

“Think your pelvis is ready?” Sans asks, all too aware of how that sounds. He rolls his eyes when Red’s sleepy grin cracks like he’s said some dirty joke, and Red makes it audible, just in case Sans wants to ignore it.

“It’s always ready for you, baby.”

Sans sighs with the patience of a saint but goes to pull Red up towards his side of the tub anyway, which is a tad deeper. The water’s just high enough to cover his shoulders, though with Red in his lap, he’s unfortunately distracted. To keep his mind from going to raunchier places, he fumbles for his caddy, pulling out a length of bristly cord and a softer brush he found in some pastel-labelled area of a department store.

He gives the cord to Red, who studies it with the clarity of a man drunk on endorphins. “Dude. What is this.”

He hears the dry click of Sans swallowing, almost as though he’s a little nervous. “Wireless pipe cleaner.”

A raw shiver goes through Red’s body, unwarranted. Breathily, as the cord is pliable, bumped chenille and is easy to manoeuvre around his phalanges, Red gives in to a startled laugh.

“Oh. Gonna wash my ears?”

Sans snickers despite himself and Red can feel it hum through the water around them. Red’s pubic symphysis throbs. He’s not an idiot, he knows what it’s for. He’s just not been able to find anything like this, or at least not considered the material. Red’s kind of intimidated by the hardware supply store sometimes. Orange-clad humans tend to sneak up on him in those huge aisles.

His face flushes anyway, telling himself not to make it weird. Sans has given him too many signals that he’s not interested in taking this too far. At least, sex isn’t on the table - nor in the tub. Not when Sans can make him pliable and relaxed by touching him all over.

The small soft bristles give easily under his touch as Red fiddles with the bit of cord. There’s no wire inside, so it’s not from the arts and crafts section too. Red idly wonders where Sans sources his cleaning supplies, but soon the thought’s abandoned when Sans reaches around him, robbing him of breath as he drags the soft side of the sponge up his ischiums.

_“Shit..!”_

Sans is curled around him despite Red’s need to latch onto him, onto _something._ He settles for gripping onto the tub’s ledge, pushing up against Sans’ solid form behind him. He can’t not feel everything as it’s maddeningly slow, hot water flooding against the small scrapes and aches in his pelvis. He swears again, muted as he pushes back against Sans a little more.

_“Oh-”_

That bastard is doing this on purpose. Red can’t _not_ make a sound, every careful stroke over his ischiums like utter madness. He grits his teeth as his pubic symphysis _throbs,_ just yearning to form something. His body’s been trained to do this, this is what being stroked there meant. It’s not as intense as normally, no doubt because of the soap, but Red can’t help the ragged gasp that tumbles past his teeth anyway.

Sans tenses behind him, clearly balking despite himself. “Dude.” Eloquent, considering he just attempted to give Red a pelvic job, or whatever this is called. Red can’t really think at the moment. He just hisses out a hot breath.

“My bad, Sansy,” he laughs despite himself, and Red glances over his shoulder as though to pardon his reaction with a desperate grin. “You c’n go rougher. I won’t break.”

The gleam he catches in Sans’ eye is enough to jump start him out of the peaceful lull and into _hell yes, let’s get this on_ land. Red braces himself as Sans reconsiders his cleaning implement, showing him the softer white-bristled nylon brush instead. It’s softer, frothing soap against Red’s bones, getting close and deep.

He holds back a shivering breath when Sans whispers, “Ready?” into his neck like a skittish virgin, pushing the soft bristles against the pillar of his spine and sinking lower and lower until Red grabs the ledge of the tub again. It feels coarser than before, sloughing off jizz, yes, but also anything else that he’s neglected to scrub away in the past. The fine teeth of the fibres catch into the holes of his sacrum, tickling but not uncomfortable, like feather-light touches to the tip of his cock.

Without meaning to, Red’s hips push into Sans’ working hand. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s gripping the ledge in his hands until Red hears the squeak of porcelain complain under his hands. That’s when he hisses out a breath, his mind dizzy and yearning, his pubic symphysis throbbing like the magic stirring there is both bothered and teased.

He doesn’t allow anything to gather there. All that rests within the cradle of his pelvis are Sans’ hands, scrubbing in lighter, circular motions. Red chokes back a muted groan, the shudder that travels up his back mirrored in Sans’ rib cage. The purr’s gone, or at least interrupted for the moment.

Sans changes angles to get between the joints of his hips, locking one of Red’s thighs up so he can reach. It leaves Red pressed against Sans’ chest, focused on restraining his magic as it’s agitated and freely flowing. He’s too relaxed to flip around, manoeuvred around like Sans has full control of him.

One hip joint done, then the other. Sans shows mercy, something Red wasn’t born with. He lets Red sit in front of him, his chest pounding and the base of Red’s spine hot and heavy. Still, he doesn’t form anything, but Sans continues to wash his back, scrubbing the other side with two brushes while Red melts at the attention to his spine.

This asshole’s too good at this. Either that, or he’s being nasty, Red thinks. He’s all too grateful for the pause in regards to his pelvic bone, which is so flared with heat that the water’s just agitating the insult.

The brushing sounds echo in the bathroom, followed by the start-up of Red’s hums. He can’t help the blissful shiver that passes through his bones, travelling down his back to be dispersed by Sans’ deftly working hands. He crosses one leg under him as Sans scrubs a little harder and a blissful sound drops from Red’s tongue, fully ready to melt into the sensations again.

Eventually, his pubic symphysis settles down from its earlier tease, but Red’s body seems warmed up to the slight shifts Sans is subjecting him to. His breaths match with every stroke, his back bending just a fraction of an inch every time he’s pushed against. His breath sighs out as Sans eventually works himself up towards his shoulders.

God, he’s dying. He’s dying and he’s gone to heaven, whatever that is. It probably means the person who makes you feel like warm jelly, since that’s definitely how Red feels right about now. He’s probably having feelings. He can’t tell. His brain is too waterlogged with sensation and utter euphoria to tread too deeply into his psyche.

One of Sans’ hands drops below the water line, this time abandoning the brush at Red’s thigh, mostly to keep it out of the way. Then he brings it back up, sliding his phalanges down Red’s left hand, to where he’s gripping the pipe cleaner cord. He carefully plucks it from Red’s grasp, distracting him with a kiss pressed against his throat.

Red shrugs into it, turning his head to face Sans as his mouth drops open. Sans’ fingertips thumb down the inner plain of his sacrum, tracing the ridges there to prepare Red for whatever he’s got planned. Of course, Red knows what’s up, but it doesn’t prepare him for the first searching probe to one of his sacral vents, raw and throbbing when Sans threads the end of the cord through the tight space.

His mind is effectively blanked. It’s been awhile since Red’s threaded his sacrum, sure, but he doesn’t usually find it this sensitive. It borders on the brink of oversensitivity and he can’t help but jolt and inhale a gulp of air.

“Just a bit of flossing,” Sans murmurs against his skull. Red’s damn near slammed the back of his head onto Sans’ shoulder, likely leaving a bruise. His groan is throaty, magic protesting as it’s effectively blocked from the area. “You ok?”

As Sans mercifully gives Red a few moments to calm, Red stares blearily at the ceiling of the bathroom, wondering what the fuck he ever did to Sans to deserve this. Then of course, there’s the thrum of hundreds of memories where Sans was up for many things that ultimately wrecked him. Ok, maybe he deserves it a _little_ bit.

He gasps helplessly, the way the water moves from his short kick swirling the current around to gently tug at the cord hanging from his pelvis. He knew this was coming, and yet…

Not sexual at all, but still blissful. Even though Sans is being gentle, his small tugs are maddening, every soft, tiny bristle on the cord tickling the inside of his sacrum and making Red throb with want. His face scalds with the indignant noise he makes, then he clears his throat as though it’d save him the humiliation.

“F-fill me up, sweetheart,” he jokes, and his voice has no business being that breathy. He swallows, preparing himself for Sans’ fingertips to pinch the bit poking through the other side, and definitely does _not_ whimper when he pulls it through to the opposing hole.

He expects the soap’ll help numb the sensation a bit. Heat scalds Red’s face when he realises that Sans has probably done this on himself, and his pubic symphysis gives a traitorous throb of want. He twists a little in Sans’ grasp when the tip flits over to the next hole, and Sans holds him around the middle so Red can’t flail.

Fuck, it’s good. It’s like the water rushes through in that instant, and _oh,_ Red can die happy. His throat feels tight with how harshly he’s restraining gasps, because the holes are small and everything feels tight and just barely giving in.

Red whimpers when Sans pulls the tip through the next sacral hole, holding both sides of the cord taut. He hopes Sans said ‘flossing’ just to fuck with him, but no, Sans truly _is_ an asshole and Red grips hard on the tub with an accompanying shout when it starts to glide back and forth. He writhes again, heat shooting down towards the base of his spine, before the magic breaks and shatters like it has nowhere else to go.

Red clenches his teeth on a mewl of desperation, the flood of hot water soaking into the pair of holes, tickling with a sweet sting. It coaxes him to move, even though Sans has his legs wrapped around his hips to keep him in place. Probably to keep Red from splashing around like a fish out of water. Red has a lot of opinions about that, but mostly that the first few drags back and forth are pure unadulterated torture. The cord is pulled so tightly against bone that Red doesn’t think he can take it, so close to yelping out his safeword, yet wanting more.

He croons when Sans kisses his skull, affectionate and sweet. He murmurs something against Red’s cheekbone, and he’s gentler now, slower. It fills Red with a surge of want, rolling his head to the side so Sans can’t see how much this is fucking him up.

Red hisses out a breath, but it’s not of pain when the cord glides through, slick and easy. When the cord slackens, he draws in heavy breaths to compose himself, and Sans checks in on him. What a cheeky fucker. Red gives a dismissive wave as though he wasn’t so close to cumming like his life depended on it.

Sans knows how the fuck to do this. Red can’t help but picture Sans alone in his house (because god fucking forbid if he wanks with his brother in a ten-mile radius), playing with his sacrum until he’s twitching in bed so hard he sees stars. Red thinks he’s nearly there when Sans urges him to lean back. Red doesn’t begrudgingly lie back, nope, Sans is just damn comfortable.

What he does is inhale a shuddering breath and holds it when Sans instructs him to. There’s still half the cord laced between the last hole filled and the first. The small thread fills him to capacity, the larger bumps in the material feeling like small thrusts where it’s most sensitive.

Red’s eyes are a little bleary. He holds onto Sans’ wrists as he works, flexing his scarred fingers over smooth bone. When Sans inches down, aiming for the next hole below, Red twists his head around to bury his face against Sans’ clavicle, groaning softly and curling his toes as his knees lock together. Too bad he doesn’t have actual thighs to vice off Sans’ hands.

“You’re an asshole,” he gasps helplessly, then a low moan escapes him, unbidden when the cord flushes through the next sacral hole. He only feels a slight jolt when Sans laughs quietly to himself, but the kiss to his temple is unwarranted, probably. He huffs in vague protest when the weight of the cord tugs along from the first hole it had entered, barely slipping out and the sensation so obscene that his hips twitch just to feel it as it exits him.

Another moan, and the water seems louder when Sans raises one of his hands to cup the side of his face. Red doesn’t know why he does this, though maybe it’s to keep his thick head from ricocheting off Sans’ like a dodgeball.

Red gives a few hard swallows to prepare himself for the next hole, and again, the tail end of the cord slips out. It’s absolutely insane how it feels, like cum trickling from his cunt after a good fuck, the relief of the sacral vent throbbing like they’re well-used.

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispers roughly when the bumps in the cord sneak into the next space, mimicking a pulse as it soothes warm water throughout the bone.

Red can feel Sans’ soft purring against his spine, the shift in his breathing like he’s getting excited. Sans continues to pull at the string, gentler now since it’s a tighter space than before. Again, Red swallows the knot in his throat as the difference in thickness makes his soul beat in tandem as it passes through him.

He’s sensitive, but not as much as before. Red doesn’t know if it’s the soap or not, but he feels like he can focus on the feeling. He hasn’t cummed, not yet, Sans is too slow for it to do anything for him, but the endorphins are doing wonders for his mood. He’s less abrasive and, hah, rough, but it’s a good thing, he thinks. He idly wonders if he’ll be as smooth and sleek as Sans’ body, and Red carefully strokes Sans’ wrist as he works.

“Feels better?” Fuck, Red can feel that reverberate all the way down his spinal column, making the cord shiver in place. A soft hum slips past his teeth, but he nods as though it’s the only thing he trusts himself to reply with. The satisfied noise Sans makes is like a shock to his already overclocked system and Red’s eyes flutter closed when Sans adds, quiet and a little smug, “Good.”

 _Good_ meaning Red’s good. He’s being good, not being a brat or an asshole for as long as Sans keeps threading up his sacrum. It’s different than normal sacrum lacing, where the cord or string stays to tease the sensitive bone, piercing through Red’s leys until he’s an incoherent mess. This way, there’s relief instead of a building pleasure. He can rest between each penetration, since the feeling subsides.

He makes a noise low in his throat, a soft trill lilting on his breath like a cat purring itself to sleep. He doesn’t jerk as much when the next pair of holes are threaded just as they were before, but it’s a tighter squeeze. It must be giving poor Sansy trouble, since Sans’ fingertips struggle at the other end of the cord with one hand. Giving Red’s cheek one last pat, he slips his hand into Red’s pelvic girdle, nuzzling his neck as he works through the last pair of holes.

Red’s vision is a little bleary, like he’s drunk or high and doesn’t know which way is up. His whole body’s warm, comfortable with only a subtle ache in his pelvis like he doesn’t know what’s going on. His purr is low and rumbly and he doesn’t care. He’s too comfortable. He’s too fucked up.

Eventually, Sans finishes up. Red cracks an eye open to watch when the simple little pipe cleaner is lifted from the bath and hung over the side of the tub so it doesn’t get lost. Sans holds him from behind, keeping him secure so Red doesn’t float away on him. The bathtub feels enormous, like they’re in a huge heated pool instead.

Sans’ fingers idly trace against his bones like something new. They don’t catch as much as before, like the years of roughness have been sloughed away over the hours they’ve been in there. Red sighs out his content, his mind quiet for once.

“Asshole,” he mumbles, not unfondly as Sans traces over Red’s neck and down his breastbone. The curve of his ribs is next, Sans’ touch lingering and sweet. “This’s your plan, mm? Tryin’ t’soften me up.” Red’s throat feels both unused and raw, but he manages to speak just fine.

Sans just wraps his arms around Red’s chest, encircling his shoulders and surrounding him like the warm water does. He hums, content himself as he strokes the pad of his thumb over Red’s cheekbone. Unable to resist, Red nips his fingers to show his teeth are plenty sharp still, thank you very much.

They stay awhile longer, until the water chills past the point of comfort and Sans’ back starts to ache. He untangles himself from Red, who’s managed to regain some of his prickly demeanour, but he comments on the amount of grit on the bottom of the tub like it’s the foulest thing Sans has ever seen. Funny, since Sans is the person with grease and sweat stains on his clothes more than half the time.

Red, kind as he is, grabs Sans’ shirt as Sans attempts to make his way out of the tub first, remembering that the floor’s soaked with bathwater and he doesn’t particularly want to see Sans crack his head open on the cupboard or something. So he pushes Sans back into the water with a rusty grin and stands to his full naked glory.

He doesn’t sparkle like a shitty makeover show. He’s not even sure that his body has changed all that much, but Red looks down to himself anyway. Some of the stains are gone and he can’t quite tell if his body is any different since he’s still wet. He sends a warning glare over his shoulder and gingerly gets out of the tub to grab towels while Sans drains the tub and stays inside, shivering like he’s stuck in a frozen tundra.

“Ah c’mon, it’s not that cold,” Red mumbles as he tosses one of his brother’s good fluffy towels Sans’ way. He makes sure to cover his face so Sans can’t read the fact that he feels one or two things about this entire situation. Mainly, what is he supposed to do with this knowledge now?

If Sans found out what Red was thinking, he’d laugh his ass off. Better not to chance it.

He appraises his phalanges once he’s patted himself dry. Then his ulna, radius. They’re not any sleeker, but there’s a buffed smoothness to the bone that wasn’t there before. Sans sends him a grin at Red’s blossoming curiosity, and Red flips him the bird and a glare despite himself. No matter, Sans probably knows how he feels anyway, the smug asshole.

The corners of Sans’ eyes are softer when he looks at him though, which Red isn’t prepared for. He decides to stumble out of the bathroom, ignoring Sans’ snickering while it threatens to tug at his teeth.

He runs into his brother, who’s a hair’s breadth away from shoving him. In fact, he appears stuck on the movement, in the middle of deciding whether or not he should throw Red over the staircase or pull him close.

Red sees the conflict in Edge’s eyes like a dare. His own narrow, ready to pick a fight, to wind up a punch. Edge’s grip on his upper arm eases, slips down a little. He doesn’t seem as confident in what he sees anymore.

It broils an ache inside of Red so quickly and so fiercely that it nearly washes away the intense pleasure that came with the grooming.

“The fuck’re you lookin’ at,” he mutters as he jerks his arm away from Edge’s hand.

Edge looks a little blindsided for a moment and he recovers before Red has a sudden flare of anger for showing weakness. He wasn’t expecting Red, not with Sans’ soap clinging to him and the sight of Red’s scars all but humming softly. He’s familiar with the sight of his brother’s bones, but they look sleeker, paler, his fingers not so stained and his joints blazing with the strength of his magic.

In all honesty, he wasn’t expecting Red to look so much like this universe’s Sans. Of course it would only be temporary, but the softness he felt and the small smile he caught when Red left the bathroom would be emblazoned upon his memory until the end of his days.

**Author's Note:**

> Kaythegoodbean [drew art for this fic!!!](https://twitter.com/kaythegoodbean/status/1319490450303209479/) Thank you so much!!! ;U;//


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